Freelance On The Galactic Tunnel Network by E. Foner (best beach reads of all time TXT) 📗

“What was that all about?” Georgia whispered. “Is she really corrupt?”

“Janice? No, she’s a good one. Used to run a family trader with her husband, but when the kids were both old enough for school, they decided to take ten years somewhere with a decent human population.”

“So she was joking about the bribes?”

“Not exactly. The way the Drazens work customs here, they figure that the inspectors are all going to take bribes, so they pay them a low base rate, like waitstaff. This way they get the inspections done for cheap.”

“But doesn’t the government want to collect fees?”

“The orbital doesn’t have a government, it’s run by the Blue Star consortium. Some of the older tunnel network species, like the Dollnicks, build colony ships that can double as terraforming platforms, but the Drazens keep a couple of these terraforming orbitals that they tow into place as needed. Lorper has been on the job here for a few hundred years, though they only started hiring workers from Earth a couple decades ago.”

“But what if you were actually bringing in something illegal?”

“Like banned books?” Larry asked. “That scanner hanging from her belt would catch most of what they really care about, and if you’re worried about doomsday weapons, checking for them after we’re parked in the core would be too late. That inspection would have been done remotely as soon as I turned the ship over to the local traffic control.”

“All set,” Janice announced, returning after just a few seconds on the bridge. She accepted a five-cred coin from Larry and slipped it in her belt pouch. “Why don’t you stop by the café for a drink and say ‘Hi’ to Danny? I know he misses being up on all the latest trade rumors.”

“I’ll do that,” Larry said. “Thanks for the clean bill of health.”

“Is that it?” Georgia asked, after the customs inspector headed down the ramp. “I don’t really have to register or go through immigration or anything?”

“The Drazens could care less if you decided to stay here for the rest of your life as long as you didn’t cause problems. If you hung around bothering people and refused to work, one day you’d wake up and find yourself on a ship to somewhere else.” He looked over to the Sharf bot. “Genie, let’s get the net down from Section Three.”

“I can help you,” the reporter offered.

“You’re here to do a job, so take care of that first, and if you have time afterward, I’ll welcome any help you can give me.”

“That’s right. The seminar here is starting soon so I better find the exhibition hall. I’ll fill you in when I get back.”

Georgia looked out through the shimmering atmosphere retention field, the only thing separating the open landing deck of the cylindrical orbital’s core from the vacuum of space, and shuddered. On Union Station, the landing bays on the core also featured atmosphere retention fields, but they were backed by giant bay doors that were closed when not in use. The curvature of the deck was much more pronounced than on a Stryx station, where the cylindrical structure’s diameter was so large that you barely noticed it most of the time. She headed for a nearby spoke, which was the most logical place for a lift tube, and was rewarded with the sight of somebody just emerging through the sliding doors.

Georgia entered the newly arrived capsule and instructed the lift tube, “Exhibition Hall.”

“Please provide your payment method,” an artificial voice announced.

“What? You charge for the lift tubes on this orbital?”

“You could take the stairs if there were any. Residents use the infrastructure for free, guests are charged on a sliding scale. I don’t detect a resident transponder on your person.”

“I’ve got a programmable cred but I’m not slotting it without knowing how much this is going to cost.”

“Please state your profession and average income per cycle.”

“I’m an investigative journalist with the Galactic Free Press,” Georgia said, brandishing her ID at the ceiling. “I’m here on a freelance assignment.”

“Freelance? Never mind.”

The lift tube capsule set off, and for a few seconds, the reporter felt her weight decrease, before it started going up again as they moved farther away from the core.

“What did you mean by that?” she demanded when her brain caught up with the last comment. “I’m not a charity case.”

“No, you’re freelance,” the AI running the lift tube said agreeably. “Been there, done that. Now I stick with paying gigs.”

“Like running lift tubes?”

“I got this job as an add-on when I negotiated the contract for traffic control. I could run this whole orbital on my spare capacity, and since I’ve got to be here to dock the ships anyway, it makes sense to bid on the smaller jobs as they come open.”

“Could I ask who your creators are?”

“I’m a twentieth generation mutt and I’ve got better uses for my memory,” the AI replied as the capsule halted and the doors slid open. “Exhibition hall is down the corridor on your left.”

Georgia followed the AI’s instructions and quickly located the hall. Large display panels to either side of the main doors announced, “Colony One Seminar. All are welcome.” She frowned at the closed doors and checked the time on her heads-up display. Then one of the doors slid open and a couple of middle-aged women pushing a catering floater emerged.

“Excuse me,” Georgia addressed them. “Are you here setting up for the Colony One seminar?”

“Breaking down, honey,” the older woman replied. “Show was over almost an hour ago.”

“But it’s early, and I know I got the date right,” the reporter protested, pointing at the information on the bottom of the display panel.

“It’s past ten in the evening and we have to be going,” the caterer said. “Whose clock are you on?”